A Match in the Night
by hayleighann
Summary: District 8 tribute Loom McGovern's POV in the 74th Hunger Games.
1. Part 1: The Launching

Part 1: The Launching

"Reenie," I say. No, more like plead. "Reenie, what am I going to do? I can't do this, I just can't!"

Reenie takes my hand, sits me on the couch. This leather couch, the humming, gleaming food dispensers, the echoing launch room itself, it all represents a life I don't belong to. A life you must be born into. A life I'll die in.

"Listen, Loo. You've got to be strong. You can be strong, I know you can. Loom, look at me," Reenie demands, for I've already glanced away, down at my raw, chewed-up fingernails. But the urgency in her voice makes me look up, into the eyes of the woman who has sent off so many girls before me to the Games. She must know something to help me out, help me see the smiling face of my mother once again.

Reenie strokes my hair, smoothes down my already smooth ponytail. Her trademark hairstyle. She says its practical, yet beautiful. Not that I could care less. When you're fighting for survival, a winning hairstyle is the least of your worries. A fact my tribute predecessors probably knew too well.

"Loo, I've seen so many tributes before you. None of them had the determination you do." I shake my head at her meaningless words, probably spoken to all her mannequins before the launch to their deaths. A pep talk to make us excited before we go in for slaughter for the Capitol's entertainment. All I've done since arriving for training was worry about my fate. Worry about the family I'm leaving behind, worry for my life. I'm no survivor, and we both know it. Every night since my name has been called from the thousands of paper slips in that glass bowl, I've awoken from nightmares about my death, each one closer than the last. I can't help thinking that as every second ticks by, one of my nightmares is about to come true.

Even if I know all this, I can't help clinging to my last contact from the outside world. I let Reenie comfort me, give me advice, build up the last few wisps of hope I have left.

"Remember Loo, find water as fast as you can. Hunger and thirst can become your biggest enemies. Try to make an ally. At night, try to keep warm. Be expecting some bitter cold nights, this jacket you're wearing is built to preserve as much body heat as possible," Reenie says, pinching the fabric of my death uniform between her fingers. Does she realize my mentor has already told me this? How does she know what's best for me, anyway? She's just a stylist. A stupid, inattentive stylist for the sadistic Hunger Games, who can't even catch the attention of the crowd with her drab outfits.

She's already lessened my outcome, taken away an advantage that could mean my life or death. Why couldn't it have been me captivating the Capitol with my flaming charm and romance? For the first time in what is probably forever, the rest of us tributes are left in jealousy of District 12.

But there's no time for petty jealousy anymore. The plastic chute waiting to carry me upwards has opened up, beckoning me forward. Reenie flutters about, forcing me to take a last gulp of water and a bite of fruit before I face the arena. Before I know it, I'm situated in the tube, looking up at the blackness that will soon turn to a bloodbath, a death scene, my place of death.

Quickly, before the door slides closed, I clutch Reenie's hand.

"Don't let anyone forget me."

Reenie squeezes my hand reassuringly before the doors whoosh closed and I'm shooting up, the plastic receding, and I'm left standing in the suddenly bright arena.


	2. Part 2: The Arena

Part 2: The Arena

I steady myself, clutching my token, my mother's necklace, in my hand. I'm remembering all too well the tribute from a few years ago who dropped her token before the gong even sounded, ending her life in a meaningless explosion. Sweat begins to form on my upper lip as I think about how it could just as easily be me now, dying for no other reason than carelessness.

Focus. I need to focus. Where am I?

There's the cornucopia, shining golden in the mid-morning heat, filled with all the food and weapons you could need to survive. If you know how to get to them. Supplies and weapons circle the cornucopia, the farther away the less worth it has. A box of matches lies at my feet, and I prepare to scoop them up, as well as the purple knapsack about 50 yards in front of me. The rest of the tributes are positioned in a circle around the cornucopia, and I eye up the distance between the competition and myself. I'm not a fast runner, but they're far enough away that I can grab what I need quickly and leave.

There's no hope of surviving the initial blood battle at the cornucopia if I stay longer than that. But where should I run to?

A field of grass sits to my left, undulating in the breeze. No, grass doesn't seem like the best protection for me. The lake just past the cornucopia won't do it either, it's too much in the open. I scan the horizon, just making out a forest of trees in the distance. A forest! I've never been in a forest before. In fact, I've never seen so much green before. In a different life, it might even look pleasant.

But it isn't. There's no telling what traps lie in the arena, what the Gamemakers will do.

The gong sounds, sixty seconds have passed, and I'm flying off my metal plate, wincing slightly, waiting for explosions to go off, before I scoop of the matches and sprint to the knapsack.

And I'm out of here! All around me, tributes are running towards the supplies and blood has already started to pour. I must get out of here quickly before I become the next target. I start heading for the woods in the distance, stumbling over the body of an unfortunate tribute before I start a good pace. I don't look back at who might have been killed, who was under my feet, what's going on behind me. I focus on the woods and nothing else.

For what seems like half an hour, I work on covering as much ground as I possibly can. But each step I take doesn't seem to carry me any closer to my refuge. The hot sun beats down on me, sucking the moisture from my body. My mouth becomes dry and my lungs feel on fire. I don't think I can last much longer at this pace.

Then I remember what my mentor told me. Don't waste all of your energy in the first minutes of sprinting. Pace yourself.

_Oh, nice going Loo!_ I tell myself. How could I forget his words already? How could I have been so stupid? I can already see my face reflected in the sky above me, Loom McGovern, District 8, dead the first day. Not even a threat to the other tributes yet.

I grit my teeth and slow my pace to something resembling a hastened walk. In the distance, I see the swish of a braid disappear into the trees. District 12! This is the girl my mentor warned me about. An almost perfect score and all the sponsors she wants. I imagine what talent she showed the Gamemakers, imagine the well-crafted swish of a sword through my neck or the crippling blow of a skilled fighter. Whatever she's done to deserve such a score, I don't want to find out. I angle away from the section of the forest she entered, and soon break through the trees. But avoidance is easier said than done. And by nightfall, even scarier predators will begin to hunt their pray. The all-powerful Careers with all the supplies they can gather from the Cornucopia.

Survival does not seem to be in my future.


	3. Part 3: The Chase

Part 3: The Chase

The second I find myself concealed by the dark shadows of the trees, I collapse on the ground. Thirst and fatigue have already settled down on me. Every breath reminds me of the dryness in my mouth, and the sweat pouring off me does little to cool me down.

_What kind of a tribute am I_? I think disgustedly at myself. Only half the day has gone by and already I feel too tired and too weak-willed to continue. Who would sponsor me now? I'm never going to win against opponents like the male tributes from District 1, 11. So large and powerful. I'll never outsmart the cunning, fiery tribute from District 5. Never get the sympathy vote like District 12. Who am I kidding, I can't even outrank the tiny twelve-year-old in training scores, and she's so slight she'd never make it against the others.

As if on cue, my stomach growls, letting off a loud whine of protest. One week in the Capitol and already it can't handle missing a meal.

I throw down my jacket, the purple knapsack, and make sure to tuck the matches safely into my shirt pocket. I'll just take a short break, I tell myself, to look through the knapsack and get a bite to eat if there's any food in it. I rummage through the bag and to my delight find a bag of mixed nuts, dried fruit, and a package of dehydrated Capitol food. Mmmmm, Capitol food. My mouth salivates at the thought. If only I had water…

But it's no use. All I find left in my knapsack are bandages, a few sharp needles and some thread, and a gun of some sort that lacks any kind of ammunition. Useless as of now.

Grudgingly, I pick up my knapsack and begin to wander. Where to, I have no idea. Maybe I'll stumble across some water, or food. I doubt I'll find food though. I've never gotten the chance to be in the wilderness before. You'd be hard pressed to find even a blade of grass in District 8. And the trainer at the Capitol who dealt with the edible food station told me never to eat what I can't identify. I try to recollect any memory of what an edible, forest-dwelling plant looks like, but it's no use. Any one of these leaves look the same as any other. I'd kill myself testing them out before I found the right one.

No, my best bet would be to try and catch an animal. If I can even manage that. Excitedly, I recall watching the girl tribute from District 12 learn to work up a snare at training the first day. The same girl I saw fly into the forest ahead of me! She's probably set up a few traps by now. If I could just steer clear of her but find her traps, I bet I could copy the design. How different can it be than weaving the intricate designs of rugs and clothes back home? I'll just have to be very careful of being detected by that 11.

Energized by new hope, I set off in the direction I judge to be where the District 12 girl ran off. But soon I'm stopped by a new dilemma. The dryness in my mouth has come back to me full force. I start day dreaming about the cool, refreshing water breaks the Peacekeepers sometimes let us take during the summer days stuck in a hot, stifling sewing room.

I look up into the azure sky through the leafy branches of the forest, hoping to catch a glimpse of a gray storm cloud, promising a cool breeze and refreshing water. But I have no such luck. The bright sky is heartlessly empty. Not even a wispy-white baby of a cloud to blow across the searing sun and offer a few minutes shade from this heat.

I give one last, disheartened glance at the sky before I hear it.

A twig snaps on the ground and instantly my muscles tense. My nerves stand on end and I hold my breath, listening for the next sound of my attacker.

My stomach gives out a loud growl and I slap my hand across it, silently cursing my empty stomach for giving me away. But it growls again, louder this time, and I realize it's not me making that sound. It's my predator.

And I'm the prey.

Another stick breaks and I hear the low grunts and whines of a pack of vicious beasts. Before I give it a second thought, I'm running as fast I can, blindly crashing through the undergrowth. The thrashing sounds of the forest behind me warn me that the beasts are close behind.

I run faster, faster than I ever have before. My chest feels like its on fire, my muscles are screaming at the exertion after the long day. But I press on, willing my legs to go faster. The beasts give a loud bark behind me and I yelp. All I can imagine are the sharp fangs and rabid claws of the creatures sinking into my flesh. One swipe and I'm done.

I'm really panicking now, flying through the trees, barely missing the trunks. Branches whip my face and blood begins to run down my cheeks and into my eyes. I move to wipe the red from my eyes, but not before my vision has been blocked for the briefest of seconds. My foot catches on a vine, and it's all over. I'm tumbling head over heels through the mud and the effect is so dizzying, I can't orient up from down.

Before I can catch my bearings and stumble upwards once again, a sharp pain enters my calf and I cry out. I pull my leg free from the mouth of a barking, crazed dog. It's not like any dog I've ever seen, the ones the wealthier people in the District keep as pets. No, this one is much larger, it's fur matted, teeth snarling, shackles on edge. I scramble through the mud to my feet and sprint for anywhere but here. Every time I land on my left leg a stab of searing pain radiates through my body, but I grit my teeth and keep running. Tears mix with the blood on my face. This is it. These are the last seconds of my life. I'm going to die at the hands of a pack of wild dogs. Not even a tribute!

That's when I splash into the cold, murky water. I'm waist deep before I even realize where I am. Oh, no. I can't swim! Now I'm going to drown while these beasts fight over the bloody remains of my body.

But the dogs have hesitated at the bank of the water, slowly dipping a paw into the spring, testing the currents. This is my chance. But what can I do?

Quickly I remember my knapsack. Thankfully, I'm so thankful, it's still on my back. It's survived the rough run for my life through the woods. I rip it off my back and plunge my hand in, willing the bag to contain something I can use.

My hand closes around the empty gun and I pull it out. What can I do with an empty gun? _Come on, Loo, think. What else have you got_?

Then I remember the needles, and I plunge my hand once more into the bag. _Please let this work_, I think. _Please_! I fumble with the gun, trying to find an opening as quick as I can. A latch pops open and I jam a needle into the gun, aim the nozzle, and fire at the beasts on the bank.

I almost lose my grip on the gun as the force of the needle shooting from the nozzle bounces the gun back towards my face. One of the dogs gives out an almost instantaneous yelp as the needle finds its target almost too well in the beast's eye, bringing it down dead in one shot.

The rest of the pack howls and yells at me from the bank, but they don't dare move closer. They know they can be brought down just as quickly as their brother.

A few minutes pass and the dogs lose interest, carefully picking their way through the mud and out of sight. I stand motionless in the water for what feels like ages, waiting for my heart beat to return to normal. I'm paralyzed by fear. Finally, the setting sun and the creeping chill of the night force me to crawl onto the muddy bank. My left calf throbs as I continue to crawl to the base of a tree and curl up, trying to block the sounds of the outside world from my mind. I'm soaking wet, I'm too afraid to look at my leg, and the cold keeps coming. I fumble around my knapsack for my jacket, anticipating the little warmth it will bring me.

But I find nothing. Frantically, I pull everything out from my bag, but my jacket is not among the contents. Where did I leave it? Where is it? Have I lost it?

Then I remember the first stop I made in the woods. I had put my jacket and my bag down, found the food in my pack… and left. I hadn't remembered to take my jacket with me. The realization hits me hard, and I feel the panic creeping back into my system. Slowly, so slowly, I crawl through the woods and onto the broken path I created from my frantic chase. The fading light leaves little to see by, and the tears running down my face feel hot against my icy skin.

I'm in for a cold night.


	4. Part 4: The Willows

Part 4: The Willows

It's cold, so cold.

My teeth chatter like tiny iceboxes and my tongue feels frozen in place. Each icy breath I take fills me up with the unrelenting cold, permeates my body. I've long ago lost the feeling in my fingers and toes. And yet I still keep moving forward, crawling at a snail's pace. I will my hands to hit my last shred of hope: the soft fabric of my warm jacket.

This is so futile. I'm going to die here, frozen to death. I imagine blackened stumps in place of my fingers, a fate some of the women in my District meet sewing into the night during a long, miserably cold winter, trying to reach the quota the Peacekeepers seem to raise everyday.

Immediately I stop, check my fingers. But I can't see anything in this darkness. Already I'm wishing for the blistering heat that, a few short hours ago, I wanted more than anything to disappear. Well, now I've got my wish. And I'm paying for it.

The night sounds all around me echo in my ears. I hunch over my legs, wrap my arms around my body, giving me the feeling of false protection from whatever roams the woods at night. Those beasts, the wild dogs and who knows what else, could be circling me right now, just waiting to rip at my flesh. And this time, I don't even have the will to run away.

I can feel myself begin to cry, but no tears will come. My body is so dehydrated I'm not even allowed to cry anymore. The Gamemakers have taken away even the control over my own remorse.

A sob escapes my lips and I press my hand to my mouth to try to quell the noise. It's no use, though. Choking sobs rack through my body. No more. No more Mother, no more Father, no more sister. No more friends at the factory, Leena, Hatch, Bonnie, and Frill. No more suppers with family and friends. No more walks to the Well to make my wishes known. No more Nylon, who was so close to kissing me before the Reaping. No more Hunger Games, no more Capitol, no more Reenie.

Reenie. What had Reenie said, that I'm more determined than the rest? She's eating her words now. Probably preparing her speech for the next unlucky tribute. Of course I'll never win, what was she thinking? And her awful advice! Make allies, start a fire, keep warm. A fat lot of good that did me. Look where I am now, a hunched-over, frozen ice cube, all ready to be towed upwards to the sky and sent back home in a wooden crate. Keep warm. If only there was some way I could.

I sit here a minute, the gears turning slowly in my frozen brain. Then my hand flies to my shirt pocket. The matches! They're still here! Oh, I could just cry from joy, if I was still able to. But I don't worry about that, in the morning I can just follow my path back to the water.

I spring into action, cracking sticks and twigs and making a teepee-like structure, just like the instructor at training told me. I smile up at the sky, hope he sees how his work saved my life. My stiff clothes crinkle and break as the ice cracks off them, but I don't care. I'm going to have a fire!

I take the precious matches into my hands, strike one against the box and start a flame. Oh, the heat from the tiny flame alone feels heavenly to my numb fingers. I place the match in the middle of the teepee, feed the fire with dry pine needles and kindling. As the flames leap higher, so does my hope. Happiness soars towards the Capitol-crafted sky, mingles with the smoke on the way.

The next few hours are spent in complete bliss. I warm every possible part of my body. My nose, my toes, the icicles formed in my hair. I even lift up my shirt and thaw my belly button. I hope my sister sees this at home and laughs. We could all use a little laugh.

A sigh escapes my lips as I transport myself back home, curled up with my little sister on the hearth, watching the flames shimmer and dance from underneath our heavy, patchwork quilt. My mother used to laugh and say she named my sister, Quillie, after the old blanket.

My fire crackles and pops, lighting up the scenery around me. For the first time, I see where I am. I'm surrounded by a grove of willows, their sad, droopy branches brushing against my back. _Don't be sad_, I want to tell them. _Things are all looking up_. Even the faint gray light of dawn paints the horizon, giving us the promise of a new and better day.

But the willows remain droopy. Sparks dazzle my eyes as I reach out to touch a branch, move it away to see what lies underneath. I'm just poking my head under the branches when running footsteps reach my ears. Catcalls and jeers echo through the willows, so out of place in this peaceful setting. Someone kicks the twigs of my fire and burning bits of matter scatter everywhere. I'm plunged into darkness, and with the last flickering flames of the fire, my hope dies out.


	5. Part 5: The End

Part 5: The End

Someone grabs my waist and yanks me out from under the willow branches.

"No!" I shout. The long, agonizing scream pierces the night. I'm holding on to the plaintive branches of the willow for all I'm worth, flailing and squirming out of harm's grasp.

"Let go of me! Let me go, you—" My foot collides with soft flesh and I hear a satisfying grunt of pain.

"Glimmer, would you hold this piece of work still? We can't have fun with her if she keeps moving around," a deep, rough male voice demands.

"My pleasure," answers a high, clear voice. I can just hear the smirk in her tone. A second set of hands trap my waist with an iron grip.

"Stop!" I'm shrieking and yelling, kicking blindly in the hopes of hitting my opponents again.

"Shut up, you stupid girl." The swish of a knife cuts through the air and my legs are left in blinding agony. Something drops to the ground and bounces to a halt. I can't feel anything but the hot, pressing stabs of pain.

"I think that was her foot you cut off," somebody snickers, and the thud of a boot connecting with solid matter reaches my ears.

Bile rises in my throat. The pain is so immense I'm having trouble connecting their words to their meaning. All I can do is shriek and beg.

"Please, please! Let me go!" I sob. "Please, you don't understand!"

A wink of silver shines in the flickering light of the torches my captors carry, and another flash of pain washes over me, radiates through my body. Hot, thick blood slides across my limbs, down my chest. The warm liquid fills my mouth and I choke. This time I really do vomit, great heaves doubling and then tripling the agony I'm in. The tight grip on my waist releases me and I crash hard onto the ground, lying in a pool of my own blood and bile. Someone grabs my hair and yanks. I choke and splutter, coughing up mouthfuls of bloody saliva.

"Please…" I whimper. More laughter. More pain. It feels like they're peeling the skin from my body, tearing me in two. All I can get out now is a low moan. Cold metal cuts into my lips and forehead. Someone smacks the bloody mess around my mouth, silencing my groans, sending another wave of pain through me.

"Idiot girl." The clear voice laughs derisively.

"Come on, let's clear out. She's as good as dead," a softer, male voice suggests.

The sounds of supplies being gathered and feet stomping away reverberate through my skull. They make sure to kick me hard on their way out, crushing my fingers underneath their heavy boots.

The torches recede and I'm left moaning and whimpering on the hard, cold ground, waiting for the cruel face of Death to swallow me whole.

* * *

One. Two. Three.

I lay in the pool of dirt and fluid, wishing for my life to end, to cut short these moments of pure torture.

Four. Five. Six.

But as time passes, the agony only increases. My heart is still pumping. Faintly, erratically, but it's there. Warm blood continues to flow from the gaping wounds in my chest, arms, and legs, pooling in my mud-streaked hair.

Seven. Eight.

Why won't this stop? Who is out there in the world right now, wishing me this excruciatingly unbearable suffering?

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

I've lost the feeling in my feet. Or are those even attached to me anymore? My neck hurts too much to lift. I don't want to look at what the Careers have done, anyway.

Twelve. Thirteen.

Seconds, minutes, or hours pass by, I can't tell which. I focus on the numbers to keep the pain from overwhelming me, swallowing me whole. I want to black out, leave this horrid world behind. But my heart remains stubbornly beating.

Stomp. Fourteen. Stomp.

Is that the Capitol coming to get me? Where's my white light? Why do I still feel broken?

Step, crunch. Step, crunch. Fifteen.

It's not the Capitol, it's an angel! Coming to save me, alleviate my suffering. My mother told me about them at the Justice Building. Before I was dragged into this hell.

Twigs crack by my ear and someone crouches over me. I don't have the strength to look up.

What number was I at?

Six. Seven.

Why isn't the angel helping me?

Eight. Why don't you save me? Take me back to District Eight. Take me home, angel.

I must have been talking aloud, because the angel leans over me, murmurs something unintelligible. Cool hands stroke my face, wipe my eyes clean, hold my hands.

A white face and crystal blue eyes peer into my own.

"Angel," I croak. But already I can tell this isn't right. The face is dirt-streaked, the pale hair knotted and dusty.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," says the same soft, male voice that attacked me.

My breathing quickens and another wave of red washes over my vision. I try to squirm away, but everything hurts too much. A whimper escapes my lips as I grab for something, anything to help me.

The soft hands reach for mine again. The boy makes soft shushing sounds, siphoning away my pain with his touch.

"What's your name?" he says.

"Loo. Loom," I manage. The 'm' comes out as a moan.

"Loo. That's a pretty name. And you're from District Eight?"

I groan in response.

"I'm Peeta."

Nine. Ten. My legs throb and I scrunch my face in pain.

"I'm so, so sorry, Loo. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I can't help you. I never wanted to do that. There's no rightful excuse for you, I know. But there's this girl… I promised myself I'd do everything I can to protect her. Katniss. Do you remember her? I remember you talking about a boy back home in your interview. Nylon? I bet you are to him what she is to me…"

I don't understand what he says after this, but I keep listening. His words captivate me, take my mind from my broken body. My breathing slows, the pain receding to a dull ache.

"Peet…a," I breathe.

"It's okay. I'll stay here with you," he murmurs softly. He strokes my hair just the way Nylon used to. "It's okay. I won't leave you."

My heart slows to a faint, irregular beat and my eyes close. The rise and fall of my chest becomes shallower.

"I tried…" I breath. "Tell them."

"Of course I will, Loo," the blond-haired boy whispers. With my last breath, my angel leans over me and kisses my forehead softly, transporting me to a world where nothing hurts.

* * *

The sun rises, the day passes. The moon and the sun, the sky and the Earth, continue their cycle as the arena darkens once again. Loom McGovern is projected across the sky, her eyes as bright as the stars. Somewhere, someplace, the blond-haired angel looks into her face, feels the weight of her death, the same as her family back home.

"I'm sorry, Loo," he whispers. The whole of Panem listens, feels for the girl for the brief second she is branded on their television screen. But life continues, and the people must return to their own troubles.


End file.
